Writers 
You first provided me with a home,
Not built with brick or wood,
But the arms that held me
Before I knew what it meant to hold.
My bedtime songs were your heartbeats,
your voice my first language,
You've just given me your Perfume of coconut oil and prayer.
I took the map to the house.
Before I was born in to the world I was in you.
Hugged close in the comfort of your embrace,
fed by your blood,
You are loved because of your very life.
And when I emerged,
screaming to the light,
You were yet still my protection.
Thou heldst my hand at scraped knees,
through broken hearts,
I burst into tears all night long for nights
I didn't want to wake on and days.
You never left.
Not when I was difficult,Not when I was difficult,
not when I was away,
not when I forgot to call,
or words harsher than swords.
You stayed.
You are the silence that understands me,
Demonstrative and the vocal that believes me.
It's the arms that never tire,
and the heart that never closes and
I've been to cities and countries,
Slept in beds that are not mine,
sought dreams which took me far away
But ever, I come back to you.
Because home isn't a house.
It's your voice calling my name
at the end of a long day,
Your kitchen is filled with spicy fragrance,
When I come through the door, your smile.
Mother,
The first place that I ever lived was your house.
And you will be
my forever love.